


The Sooner the Better

by amberlo133



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Canon Compliant Violence, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberlo133/pseuds/amberlo133
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Juice had just told someone sooner? Shameless fix-it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sooner the Better

**Author's Note:**

> References to violence. Many thanks to ghost_girl for the beta, any mistakes are my own.

‘Does that feel like a joke?’

Chibs watched Juice being pushed into the police car with a growing sense of dread tinged with desperation. Couldn’t they do anything without it going to shit? He’d had to watch Juice and so many other brothers carted off to jail and had only just got them home. Seeing the kid loaded into a cop car again so soon struck too close to home. Plus now, with the cartel and Clay’s new attitude, it felt like they were all spiralling downwards yet again. Killing that bastard Jimmy and the bitch ATF agent was meant to end all of this. 

Juice’s newest pick-up should be small change but it didn’t feel that way. Didn’t feel right at all. For now, he’d have to hope that it was just the new Sheriff swinging his dick, like it had been when he denied them their cuts. Prick.

*********

‘I’ll stay in touch brother.’

Juice left the station with his mind racing, his immediate impulse was to go to the club. After growing up relying on no one but himself, he had grown used to trusting in his brothers. Maybe too used to it... after all, he should have known this was coming when he omitted to mention how he wasn’t even eligible to prospect for SAMCRO. Well, he was paying for that now.

He needed to avoid the club and decide what to do about Roosevelt’s barely veiled threats but he didn’t want to go home. Like most of the guys he did have a flat in Charming but it wasn’t much of a home. Everything he had was invested at Teller-Morrow with the Sons. He let the bike take him out of Charming and up into the nearby hills, it should give him the chance to think. He wasn’t an idiot; Roosevelt clearly wanted him for something big. Must be setting him up for the long haul if they were starting with such a light touch. 

Good intentions, but with all the shit going on at the clubhouse it had been a while since he’d been for a proper ride. It drove his problems out of his mind. Lately it seemed that they only used their bikes to ferry guns and to get away from crime scenes. More than even muling drugs, if the bikes were ceasing to matter the club must be losing its way.

The feel of the wind, the music and the perfect feeling of being perfectly in balance with his bike soon took over and before he knew it was time to return to the clubhouse to vote. This shitty non vote that they nevertheless had to take. The covert whisperings hadn’t escaped his notice; it was clear some people were trying very hard to push this vote through. What surprised him was that Jax seemed to be one of the ones pushing it forward. They’d turn into fucking politicians soon if they weren’t careful. It wasn’t like there was any point; Clay had already made the agreement, now the cartel would never let them go. And now the cops had their claws in him too, if there was a light at the end of this tunnel it was getting really fucking dim. 

Still, it was satisfying to voice his disapproval and vote against getting into drugs. A privilege you’d never have if you hadn’t lied to them to get it. He was trying to shut his thoughts out and focus on the matter at hand but Roosevelt had really fucked with his head. How will they look at you when they find out? Its that or become a rat. He knew better than to think the cops wanted anything but that, they would find a way to use him and when they did... 

He imagined them taking his cut, ripping the badges off, being ordered to black out his tattoos. Would he be able to bring himself to get it done or would they have to burn them off like they did to the last guy. Maybe they’d do that anyway, just to make sure. It seemed like forever now he’d had the familiar weight of his cut telling him he was valued, accepted, had a home and a family. To lose all that...

He could just bury it for now, maybe they’d never find a way to use this. I wasn’t like it was the feds that were pressuring him, like they had Chibs and Opie.

Everyone was filing out of church now. Bobby seemed the most pissed, but he hadn’t exactly been the only one to vote against, Chibs, Piney, even Happy. Five against six, and even those who’d voted for knew how deep this shit was that they were getting into. There’d be no party tonight. Those with kids and old ladies would want to see them, and too many of the others were disgusted with the direction the club was going. 

All he wants to do was climb back on his bike and ride forever, but he knew he’d only end up back here. Where else did he have to go? 

Outside in the clubhouse Tig and Kozig are racking up the pool table, normally he’d stay but it was hard to chill with the guys when he was imagining just how badly each would react to the news that they had a black in their midst. He wanted to think they wouldn’t really care, none of them seemed that racist the rest of the time. Of course they weren’t exactly the most politically correct bunch but there had never seemed to be any heat behind it. But you lied to them. They trusted you. Either way it wouldn’t matter, times like these weren’t when they could all chill out reconsider the rules the club was built on.

He sees Chibs stalking towards the exit, snagging a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar on his way. Fucking off and getting completely ‘rat-arsed’ seemed like a pretty sensible plan at this point. He follows the Scot out into the lot to the bikes. Chibs gives him a nod as they prepared to leave, stashing the stolen bottle in a saddle bag. He returns the gesture.

‘Shitty night.’

‘Oh aye, this could make that shite with the Mayans look like a fuckin’ picnic.’

‘Yeah...’

Just thinking about what’s to come with the cartel makes Juice suddenly feel exhausted, and that was without his own troubles. He crosses his arms over the handlebars and leans his forehead against them.

‘Y’alright lad? Cops didn’t work you over or nothin’?’

Juice starts and jerks his head up. He’d half forgotten Chibs had seen him pulled in. But its fine. Chibs will just assume Roosevelt’s continuing to be a pain. He chokes out a laugh.

‘Nah course not, he’s too much of a pussy for that.’

Shit. Chibs had been asking about the cops in general and now he’s giving him a look.

‘So y’saw the man himself. Proper royal treatment Juicey-boy. He give you a hard time?’

‘No. No, he was just yanking our chains some more.’

It sounds weak even to him. He’s shit at lying to people he likes. Especially Chibs. The guy had mentored him, and when he’d gotten over being terrified and hazed he’d become Juice’s go to guy when he needed help. Terrible or not, that lie was the start of him covering up this problem from his brothers. It feels like he’s just taken a pneumatic drill and industrial digger to the hole he’d dug himself when he lied about his Dad.

‘Well alright then. I need to get pissed. See ya Juicy.’

With a roar Chibs is off, leaving Juice guilt-stricken. With a ragged sigh he, too, pulls away, following the Scot on the familiar route home. They live on the same side of town, and he has many content memories of riding home after a long night knowing one of his brothers is still with him most of the way. Even the bikes always sound better together, though nothing compares to the feeling of riding with the whole club around him. You may never feel that again.

On the outskirts of Charming he slows behind Chibs as he turns into his street, then carries on his way home. Only half a minute later something in him rebels. If he leaves it like this tonight - goes home and buries this secret inside him - then there will be no going back. 

Heart already racing, he turns into the next side street and parks up his bike. No one in Charming should be stupid enough to touch a Son’s bike, but he chains it up anyway just in case of any out-of-town fuckwits. If he lost bike it might be worse than when he lost his cut. He doesn’t need to give the club any more reasons why he’s unworthy. 

Unable to believe he’s doing this, or decide whether or not its the stupidest decision he’s ever had, he walks the short distance back to Chibs’ house.

********

Chibs hasn’t been so glad to shut his own door behind him in quite a while. He’d really fucking missed his brothers for the year they’d been inside, but after tonight he’s not sure having them out is better. Nah that’s not fair, not really. Prison’s changed them of course, it always does. Juice is quieter than before; more closed off. For one he’d seemed to have little trouble gunning down the Russians. Even when he was mentoring the guy he’d wondered whether he’d have the heart for the more gruesome parts of belonging to the MC. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes these things had to be done. But if all of them were like Happy he’s not sure he’d even want to be a part of the club. And it’s not like he’s exactly a saint himself.

Clay is the same as ever, only more. It’s clear that as his hands go he will become more and more like a wounded animal, unpredictable and dangerous. The club is in crying need of someone to balance him out, and that’s the real problem here: it’s Jax that’s changed the most. Chibs never would have thought he’d back muling the drugs. 

He takes a long shot of the whiskey straight out the bottle and goes hunting for a glass and another pack of tabs. Might as well try and forget about it all for the rest of the night. However bad it gets here, it won’t be as bad as Ireland. Doesn’t mean he has to like it though. He’s just settling in with bottle, fags and gun in easy reach, when someone bangs on the door. And that’s the reason for the gun; nothing at this time of night is ever going to be good.

He pads over to the door, trying to see through the glass, but sees only a guy’s silhouette, hood pulled up. If he was some granny, he’d be pissing himself with fear right now. He adjusts the gun in his hands, but then the guy bounces on his toes, a nervous gesture he’s so familiar with that he then knows exactly who it is. He exhales and opens the door.

‘Juice. What’s wrong brother? Bike alright?’

‘Yeh. Yeh everything’s fine...’

He actually looks like the opposite of fine. He’s still fidgeting, and his eyes are darting around nervously, looking everywhere but at Chibs. He has no idea what could have happened to Juice in the twenty minutes since they last spoke, but there’s clearly something up, and he didn’t think the vote on the drugs would affect him like this.

‘Right...’

He’s worried now, but even so he really did want to just get plastered tonight. But Juice is his brother, and he owes him better than that. He reaches out and grabs the neck of Juice’s hoodie and drags him inside, his mind offering up a picture of a cat with a kitten by the scruff of its neck. The lad flinches away from him and struggles hard to keep his balance, choking out an almost-laugh that goes nowhere near his eyes. To be honest grabbing him like that probably wasn’t the best idea when the guy’s stressed and fresh out of the pen, but Chibs has never been great with words.

‘C’mon, join me with the whiskey.’

********

It’s bittersweet when the Scot drags him into the house. He’s glad to see the show of trust and to be accepted in without explanation, but now his mind is over-thinking every action. Trust, yes but how much? Enough to forgive me my lies and my race? Or just enough to be really fucking angry when he finds out? He rather doubts Chibs cares about race after meeting his wife, but that’s not why he came here. He doesn’t know why he’s here of all places. Jax might have made more sense if he’s really going to confess this, but its Chibs he trusts the most. For whatever reason that is. 

He follows Chibs into the kitchen and waits while he finds another glass. He half wants to relax, knowing he’s safe in this place, but soon he’s going to have to explain exactly why he is here. Another surge of adrenaline spikes through him, almost painful in its intensity, when he remembers he has to find a way to say this, or run and leave the Scot really fucking suspicious.

When he was a kid growing up in a nasty part of Queens he’d been really shy; able to stand up for himself and a decent fighter, but fucking terrible with girls. Still not great now, but he’d pretty much got over it. He’d started out by just spitting out whatever was on his mind and then dealing with the fall out after. Said some pretty weird things, but it was better than just staring creepily. He still remembers being in the process of asking out a really hot chick, and having a running panicked commentary going on in his head about did he know these words were coming out of his mouth and that it was a fucking terrible idea and she was going to laugh at him. She _had_ laughed at him, but he’d still got what he wanted in the long run. 

It shrieks of desperation that he’s calling up techniques he’d used as a tongue tied kid just to confess this, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

Chibs has settled back at the table and is pouring out two glasses. Juice is way too wired to sit still, and the fight or flight reflex is screwing with him horribly. As Chibs takes a long pull from his glass, still not knowing why he’s risking this and why he’s not home by now like any normal person would be. He spits out:

‘I’m black.’

The Scot half chokes on his drink going bug-eyed for a second, but successfully swallows it down with a cough.

‘Wait, what?’

‘Black. African American, whatever.’

‘Well that’s... not what I was expecting to hear tonight. Why’re telling me, boy?’ 

Chibs looks pretty fucking thrown by all this, mostly shocked and confused. Juice sinks into a chair, the adrenaline starting to fade and resignation taking over. There’s no way to back out of this now. 

‘Because I’m not even supposed to be a Son,’ he spits out.

‘Well I guess that’s kinda true... but...’ Chibs is still looking rather lost, but now he’s started with this Juice can’t stop talking.

‘At first I didn’t realise, when I came to Charming and saw the Sons. Started asking around, found out more and more and I just wanted in, you know, and no one mentioned the rules. Everyone assumes I’m Puerto Rican because my mother and step father were.’ He’s leapt back out of his chair getting caught up in his misery and frustration. ‘I’ve never even met my Dad! I can’t believe he’s managing to fuck with me even now. By the time I found out the Sons don’t accept Blacks I’d already applied to prospect. And now everything’s fucked! And I don’t know what to do...’

But then Chibs is there, catching him by the shoulder.

‘Christ, man. Calm down, and sit down while yer at it.’ He pushes Juice back into the seat and crouches down in front of him.

********

Chibs has never seen the guy this angry and desperate when there wasn’t blood all over the place. He’s looking up into the guys face, and even now Juice is avoiding his eyes and breathing hard. His eyes look suspiciously bright. It’s horrible seeing him like this; the lad’s usually a fucking ray of sunshine in the clubhouse where Happy and Tig’s special brand of humour is too often the dominant presence. Feeling a little desperate himself, he grabs Juice’s face with one hand, his other on his knee, and turns his face to look at him before letting go.

‘What the hell has brought all this up eh? Tell me.’

‘Roosevelt...’ Juice manages. Suddenly it starts to click.

‘He threatened you with this...’ It’s more a statement than a question, and the thought makes him surprising angry. He remembers what it was like to be in the feds clutches, even for a short time.

‘That bastard! He pulled the fucking race card on yer?’

‘Told me the club would pull my patch... Make me black out my ink...’ Juice’s arm moves to cover the tattoo on his forearm, and his face is fucking heartbreaking. It actually gives Chibs hope for the club that he was starting to lose his faith in. If it still means so much to someone like Juice to be a part of it, then the brotherhood, the family it was always meant to be can’t be gone. Not yet. 

‘What did he want from you boy?’

‘Wouldn’t say. Just said they’d be in touch.’

Juice rolls his head down, covering his hand with his face, elbow on his knee. Lad still thinks he’s about to lose everything. Chibs doesn’t know what exactly he was running from when he washed up in Charming, but it can’t have been good. It isn’t like the guys are even that nice to him. A lot of them hadn’t really stopped treating him like a prospect till they really got into it with the League and ATF last year. Truth is, that even if the club really want to turn him out for this they couldn’t afford to. Brilliant hackers , willing to do time or kill to protect the club, didn’t turn up every day. Not that the club had really thought that through. When he’d got out of hospital, Tig had told him how they’d pimped the boy out in jail like it was fucking hilarious, and he’d nearly punched the guy. Jax and Opie both like Juice, but they’ve both had too much shit going on in their personal lives to notice if something happened to him. Pretty poor reflection on his brothers that it’s Chibs that Juice has run to with this. He pulls the guys face up again.

‘Hey, stop beating yer self up. I’m guessing you think about yer self as Puerto ’cause that’s what it says on yer paperwork ye?’

‘I guess...’

‘That’s all that matters Juicey, club doesn’t care ‘bout nothing else. God, you know how many of us could pick our old man out of a line up. It ain’t many.’

*****

As that sinks in, Juice can hardly believe his ears. After all this, it’s a non issue. He never realised that no matter what photo they stuck over the paper work it still said Hispanic, not black. He had really thought he was out, would have to start over new town new people and still very little to offer. 

‘Fuck,’ he breathes, letting out a choked laugh and dropping his head forward. His forehead comes to rest against the Scot’s, and he smells like whiskey and leathers, like the essence of SAMCRO and Juice can’t believe that he still gets to call this home.

‘That’s right, lad. Yer fine. We’ll take this to the table tomorrow and let Clay decide what he wants ter do about Roosevelt,’ he says, patting Juice’s cheek and backing off. ‘Now, this getting really fucking gay so unless you have something else to confess...’

Juice laughs. ‘What could I possibly like that would rival Tig?’

‘Too true. C’mon man, after all this I feel the need for the idiot box.’

Juice drags himself up and follows Chibs through to the lounge where he immediately slumps down again on the sofa. The adrenaline’s wearing off, and he dimly watches the Scot channel flicking while absentmindedly swigging whiskey from the bottle when Chibs occasionally waves it at him for a turn.   
Three shots later and he’s out like a light.

*********

A week or so later they’re just finishing up with the Mayans when Juice gets a text from Roosevelt demanding a meet. His face tightens up in irritation; he had been pretending all that had never happened. That he had never come close sitting in the Sheriff’s pocket over a faked problem with the club. Chibs notices and asks him what’s up.

‘Roosevelt, sniffing around again. I’m gonna ignore it.’

‘Too right! Or... mebbe not. Hey Clay!’

‘Chibs.’

‘Ol’ Roosevelt’s wanting to put the pressure on again,’ he says clapping Juice on the shoulder. ‘Think we should mebbe go have word with him about that.’

‘Why yes. I really think we should,’ says Clay with an evil grin. These days anything that brings them back together is a pleasure, and Juice can see the rest of them starting to grin over Clay’s shoulder as they catch on.

*********

Roosevelt is sat waiting in his truck when he hears the roar of a bike approaching. He smiles. This should be easy. He’s convinced many jittery, junkie gangsters to give him information on their so-called buddies before. Most are easy to flip, never knowing whether to be more afraid of the police or their friends.

The roar is loud as he climbs out of his truck. Too loud. He can see Juice coming down the road but he’s leading what looks like nearly the whole club. What the hell is going on here?

Juice is riding on cloud nine as Clay drops back and waves to him to take the lead as they draw near. He pulls up with his brothers behind him and suddenly the Sheriff doesn’t look so cocky anymore. They all dismount and crowd up behind him as he walks over, Clay, Jax and Chibs at his back. 

‘Was there something you wanted, Sheriff?’ he asks, finding it difficult not to grin at the man.

‘Wasn’t expecting the whole tribe. I think you know that there are some conversations better had in private.’

Juice can’t believe the guy hasn’t worked it out yet.

‘There’s nothing you can say to me that my brothers don’t already know,’ he smirks. Roosevelt’s face tightens unhappily in realisation. Clay’s hand lands on his shoulder and he says:

‘Maybe you should get to know us a bit better before you judge what we would or wouldn’t do to a brother.’

‘You really think we give a fuck about skin colour? There are more important things, like honesty, loyalty and not going behind people’s backs,’ Jax spits out, slinging an arm around Juice, and Juice knows Roosevelt’s getting the look that takes Jax from just the club golden boy to a credible VP.

He tugs Juice away and as the club starts to move back to the bikes he hears Chibs at his most threatening...

‘If you ever do that to one o’my brothers again...’ 

...and he can’t keep the grin off his face.


End file.
